


the house stands

by vaguelycloudy (outofcertainty)



Category: Andromeda Six (Visual Novel)
Genre: (FIGHT ME), F/M, Found Family, The power of friendship, is the best family, or alternatively:, the crew is there and so is the hint at romance but this is primarily about friendship so, the tagline for this fic is:, vague spoilers for episode three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24231919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outofcertainty/pseuds/vaguelycloudy
Summary: Nothing’s familiar but the footsteps behind her when she rushes out, heart stuck in her throat.(You need to remember you can always come home.)
Relationships: Juniper Nyux/Original Character(s), Original Character & Original Character
Kudos: 9





	the house stands

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to finish the box fic but then this got a hold of me and wouldn't let go.
> 
> Huge thanks to Lita for indulging me and letting me borrow her troublemaker of a princess for this! 
> 
> (I'll have to edit this later for typos and consistency, but heh.)

In gilded halls, she spins half-truths: how it began across lavish rooms, odd glances exchanged in social functions, a quietly shared laugh during the lull moments between greetings.

In truth, it begins like this: a cut along his jaw and a bruise on her shoulder, bloody knuckles and sore palms, light footwork and heavy kicks, a constant flash of motion.

(In truth, it begins with _belonging_.)

\+ + + + +

Her parents, on the rare occasions she gets a sliver of their attention, never fail to emphasise the importance of a carefully crafted image.

Like the paintings of old monarchs dotting the palace walls, not truly real yet entirely too real – the person often isn’t remembered by history, but the image always remains, for better or for worse.

She takes these lessons to heart, lowering her head demurely, smiling softly, the very picture of innocence the few times her presence is required and not just that of her older siblings’. It’s a constantly repeated mantra in between dancing lessons, secret escapades and frosty meals; her world is smoke and mirrors, her façade reflected back at her on a thousand different faces-

Until it isn’t. Until she sees him standing there, tugging at his high collar, looking ridiculously out of place – smile too wide, answers too earnest, shadowy implications going right over his head.

(She had forgotten what honesty looked like.)

\+ + + + +

The beginning isn’t the beginning.

The beginning is her attention caught by weakness, by open vulnerability, by inexperienced youth in the predator’s jaws.

(A single spark by itself is not enough to light up the hearth.)

The beginning is her hand striking against a padded surface, the sound of footsteps quickly approaching and her panicked turn.

It’s not proper, the fighting - not _this_ particular kind of fighting, all wild moves and rough aggression, all power without grace and elegance.

Silence hangs between the two of them; even later, she won’t be able to tell which one of them had been more confused at the time.

“Uh, hey,” he says eventually, rubbing at his nape. The gesture brings her attention to his hair, vivid red and tied low, pale pink skin making it look even brighter. “Sorry, didn’t mean ta-”

Garnet eyes flicker between her, the dummy, the fabric around her knuckles, the bruises on her legs. Her lips part, only to press together again at the bright grin taking over his features.

“Oh, you’re sparring!” he snaps his fingers once, then nods to himself before practically bouncing over. Her gaze doesn’t shift. “Can I join ya?”

It isn't like she's never thought about being caught. It isn't like she has never _been_ caught.

But the reactions were always raised brows and grim looks, disappointed stares and sharp words, not grins. _Never_ a grin, not except for Vexx, and it’s not like anyone would believe him.

The wise thing would be to refuse. The wise thing would be to coerce him into conveniently forgetting stumbling upon this scene. He’s a stranger and there are a thousand ways this could be used against her and experience has taught her not to trust anyone who lives on Goldis.

Her mind flickers back to a month ago, to open bewilderment and uncomfortable shifting, to genuine _honesty_ , and Lita-

Lita is tired of pretending to be wise.

“Sure.”

(But if you place all the pieces in their proper place - the sturdy logs, the dry sticks, the lit match stuck between cone scales - then a single spark can work.)

\+ + + + +

The constant humdrum of machinery sounds odd to her ears.

She wonders if that means she wasn’t used to interplanetary travel. There’s nothing out there but space, yet it doesn’t feel as desolate and devoid of anything as her own mind, as the space behind her eyes and under her tongue. 

There are other people on the ship. She wonders if it’s her that’s speaking, if it’s her that’s thanking the tall man that helps her remember her own name, if it’s her that jokes around with the pilot, if it’s her that talks back at the captain.

The words are coming from somewhere. Her reactions are coming from _somewhere_.

Is it her? Is _this_ her? Is this who she _was_ or who she’s _become_? Her words falter, gaze flickering from one figure to another, suddenly overwhelmed by the people around her, until it lands on-

Pink. Red. 

There’s something there, just outside her reach, and her fingers twitch as if to physically grasp it. The chatter continues, but neither of them is paying attention. She blinks, unsure of what to make of the surprised look on his face.

Her lips part, then press together again.

After a moment, he walks over with a growing, if hesitant, grin.

“Hey,” he says, quietly. “Don’t I know ya-”

“ _Kuma_.”

His speech cuts short. Around them, the conversation has stilled, but she’s still not paying attention to it. 

He blinks at her in confusion, but after a second, something seems to slide into place; his grin, this time, is almost blinding.

_(You’re home_ , something in her says, _what took you so long?_ )

\+ + + + +

The others are new.

She knows she doesn’t know them, not because her memories have returned, but because they’re _unfamiliar_.

Nothing sparks any amount of recognition - not Bash working on something with too many wires, not Aya gripping at the controls, not Ryona gently running her scans, not Damons twirling his knives, not Calderon striding purposefully across the bridge.

(Not June, with his quiet laugh and his kind eyes, with his hands reaching out to steady her and then pulling back abruptly, as if afraid.)

It’s all new, starkly so compared to Kuma, to the way they jump around each other and strike, quick and fast, dodging and rolling and instinctively knowing which side they favour, how strong to push, when to stop.

Muscle memory, Ryona says, after watching them spar around the cargo hold, much to the captain’s annoyance.

Lita is happy some part of her remembers, that there is something - someone - that feels comfortable in the face of a foreign universe.

He’s staring after the slinking figure of Damon, something hilariously close to a starstruck expression on his face, and she slides over with a smirk.

“Handsome, right?”

His expression changes to open confusion as his gaze flickers to her.

“Huh?”

Red and gold and a high ceiling flash before her eyes for a moment; her fingers curl into fists at the involuntary memory but the smirk remains firmly on her face.

(She’ll let it out later, in a string of blows she knows he’s more than able to take, and maybe it isn’t a healthy pattern, but it’s a familiar one, more real than anything else in their lives. 

Somehow, _that_ thought doesn’t seem new.)

“Damon?”

“I.. guess?” his confusion swiftly turns to gushing admiration. “But have you seen his knives? They’re _so cool!_ ”

Her laughter is abrupt but contagious, spreading to him in barely a second. Kuma stands on his top toes to wrap an arm around her as they shake with mirth all the way down to the cargo hold, lightly shoving each other like a pair of children.

( _A different layout but the same space. Thank the universe, it’s still standing. Thank the universe, you’re still standing._ )

\+ + + + +

Nothing’s familiar.

Not the stifling heat, not the warm wind blowing against her back, not the coarse sand beneath her feet, not the buildings clustered around narrow streets.

Not the club later, not the dazzling lights and odd drinks, not the floating bubble dancers and dealer tables, not the patrons of all sizes and shapes and species. 

Nothing’s familiar but the footsteps behind her when she rushes out, heart stuck in her throat.

It’s decidedly unwise to chase after someone at night on a planet she doesn’t know, but the uncertainty fades with the presence she feels at her back.

(Wisdom was left behind in the coup, along with everything else. She doesn’t miss it.)

One of them could be taken by surprise, but not the two of them together - they duck around each other and it’s Kuma that knocks the stranger off his feet but it’s Lita’s arm that’s pressing him uncomfortably against the wall.

(It’s not a stranger. The ground tilts beneath her feet.)

Everything seems to stand still for barely a moment, as recognition sets it, but a moment is all Vexx needs to slip away from their grasp, face set into a scowl that doesn’t suit it.

“You’re lying,” Lita says, but doesn’t stop him from leaving.

Her chest’s heaving with exertion, or anger, or maybe heartbreak; her trembling fingers curl into a fist as if to strike out again. There’s nothing in the world except her narrowed field of vision, locked on to moving red-

(A hand curls around her elbow. The ground beneath her feet rights itself.)

\+ + + + +

“He’s a jerk.”

Her contemplation of the - dull, metal, entirely functional - ceiling is interrupted by Kuma plopping down at the end of her bed. It’s an entirely graceless motion, one that makes the corners of her lips twitch upwards.

There’s nothing to do in her room, but Ryona had all but ordered her to go rest. Lita had barely put up the token amount of protest, head pounding with revelations and secrets and fleeting fragments of a life that seemed like it had belonged to someone else.

( _You need to remember_ , someone said in the dream.)

She straightens up slightly in bed, abruptly remembering Kuma had never insulted anyone before. Not that she can remember, anyway, for all that’s worth.

Instinctively, her gaze flickers over his hair - in disarray, not unusual - and his face, down to his shoulders and arms and hands. 

One of his knuckles is split.

_What did you do_ is at the tip of her tongue, where it stays, held by weariness and exhaustion and the aching void beneath her ribcage.

It’s not like she didn’t see him trailing after June with a familiar tilt of his chin and a startling unfamiliar look of anger.

She could ask and he would answer, open and honest as it has always been between them, the only thing unmarked by tragedy.

“Come here,” Lita says instead, scooting over herself to reach for his hair.

Kuma blinks at her once before turning his back. 

The strands are enviably smooth, except for the odd tangle, even if his braid is fraying at the edges. With practiced ease, Lita untangles it all, snapping the bands against her wrist before ruffling his hair.

“Hey!” Kuma protests and it makes her laugh - a small flicker of a thing, but _genuine_.

Falling into silence, with her fingers carefully parting his hair and her attention fully on the task at hand, feels as easy as sparring, as natural as breathing.

Something dark rattles in her chest, stops, crumbles away.

Lita takes a deep breath and smiles.

( _You need to remember you can always come home_.)


End file.
